The Crossing

"Billy disappeared at about the same time that the paintings were being unloaded. It had started to rain and with all the activity it would be several hours before he would be missed. The hall lights of the big house illuminated the small lorry and the three people who worked silently at their task. The cardboard cylinders were being carefully stacked up in one corner of the hallway and would be moved down into the cellar later.
   It was the early days of October 1940 and for the last month the bombs of the Luftwaffe had rained down on London. The Collector's town house in Kensington could have been a million miles away from the East End and the docks that were taking the nightly poundings. That was only in terms of wealth and opulence though. As he watched from his terrace garden at night the red sky of flames to the east was moving closer. The iron gates of his mansion, which were secured to protect him from his fellow countrymen, would offer no defence from the aerial threat. The years were catching up with him and he knew he would never be able to build up such a collection again. Thirty years of effort had been spent in acquiring works of art from around the world. He had left behind a trail of death and deceit in his pursuit of the riches and had at least seven paintings that could never legally see the light of day in any gallery.
   As instructed, he had made the telephone call two days earlier and had spent the time since then preparing the paintings for their journey down to his brother's house in Somerset. Each of the frames was cut carefully at the back and the contents placed gently onto a cotton sheet cut accordingly. A sheet of greaseproof paper was laid on top followed by a final piece of cotton. Making sure that the pieces were all lined up, he gently rolled the cotton, the canvas and the paper into a loose cylinder. This was then carefully slid into a cardboard tube, which he numbered with a thick black pen. He then went back to his desk and logged the number of the cylinder against the typed list.
   His young companion worked alongside him, lifting the paintings down from the walls, and checking the list, before handing the works over to The Collector to pack.  Aside from his few staff, The Collector lived alone. His paintings were his family and they were now being carefully and lovingly packed up to be evacuated to safety in the West Country.
   There was one item that was not on the list that would also have to go. Tucked safely away from view behind a large bureau was the centrepiece of the collection. The two men gently eased the large oak panel out and lent it against the front of the bureau. Lifting the sheet that covered it, they gazed for the last time at the image in front of them. Measuring nearly five foot tall and almost two feet wide, the 15th century masterpiece had been lost to the world for the last six years. The Collector sighed and sadly began the task of preparing it for the journey."